Empty
by Aranel Laerien
Summary: Legolas ponders over certain events, and falls into a state of melancholy...


**Empty**

Author: xaranelx

Note: This is set in Legolas' PoV, but I guess you can say it's pretty general... I don't own Legolas nor his _ada_ (Thranduil); Tolkien does...

* * *

I only know that I have to run; I know not where, I know not how long, but I must run. I cannot stay here anymore, I cannot feel a thing anymore, but I know that I am running, or at least it seems as though I am, and so I will.

I am in the forest now, but I cannot behold its beauty. I am surrounded by life, but I cannot feel its presence. I am myself, but I cannot find anything within.

Every morning, I watch the sun rise; every evening, I watch it set. The days pass me by, and I do not feel them. Every time, the sun was beautiful, soft nuances of pinks and cream fused into an impeccable canvas, but this evening, I only see blue and grey. And I knew it was time.

_Ada_ and _nana_ expect much from me. They love me; I can see it in their eyes. But they are too busy, too distant. They do not understand anything, they cannot understand.

They tell me to teach Tithorn, but I just cannot. It is not that I hate him; it is not that I do not want, but I know I simply cannot. Tithorn gives all sorts of gifts and lovely luxuries, whenever I go, but I feel that this is all wrong.

Every week I enter his home, and I never get out until hours later. He shows me the latest scroll he is reading, he tells me what his _naneth_ taught him to cook. He brings me into his world, revealing all I will ever need to know about him, sharing his secrets, sharing the pranks he and his friends play on the unsuspecting child. But this is all wrong. I am supposed to take him out; I am supposed to show him how to use a bow.

_Ai_,_ Eru_! Help me! Is archery not what I do best? Is it not I who can shoot all those impossible targets without blinking? Why is it so hard for me to tell Tithorn what I know? Do I not wish to help him? Do I not care about him? But, somehow, I do not want to go; I do not want to be with him. I do not want to have to do anything ever again.

I tell _nana_ that. She gives me a hurt look; Tithorn is her nephew, her relation. He and I grew up together. What is so hard about teaching him?

"But he's giving me gifts for something I didn't do", I protest.

"My son," she says pleadingly, "though you be royalty, you must learn to work for your food, for yourself," and she gives me the sad face, and I cannot say no.

"Be good," she says, "do your best, and don't worry about it."

I can only nod my head. What else can I tell her? That I am not meant to do this? That I cannot carry on? She is too busy with things of her own; she is tired from the day's work, and needs rest.

I tell _ada_ all that I feel, but he only shakes his head.

"You are wasting your time," he says, "you should stop going."

But he does not help. He agrees with _nana_. And he turns back to his work once again.

Nothing else matters now.

At nightfall, we gather together. _Ada_ has brought some documents to look through; _nana_ is busy with some sewing. I have nothing I can do. I have no one I can turn to. I take up a quill and parchment and draw idly, write randomly. But everything that comes out is always in monochrome.

I look at _nana_, she turns, smiles, and returns to her fabric. _Ada_ is sitting with his back towards me. I do not dare call him. I have nothing of importance to tell him. I have nothing to tell him.

Someone says a thing. I smile and nod. I am getting good at pretend. I can talk, smile, laugh, anything and everything. I can please everyone; everyone, except me. Because the me that all those around sees is not me.

_Nana_ puts an arm around me, but I do not feel anything. She chides me gently for not spending time with her.

"You're always busy writing and drawing," she says.

I do not know how to answer her.

Why am I so detached? This is my family; this is where I belong. But do I belong here? Do they want me? Does anyone not mind me being around?

_Ada_ tells _nana_ something, and she replies, laughing, but I do not see the mirth. My hand aches from the writing, the drawing, but there is nothing else I can do. I feel almost desperate now; I _am _desperate. But, for what? I do not know.

I stand up and walk through my home. This is my home. It should be my home, but it does not feel like mine. There is no warmth, no joy. Only every day's burdens hang over us, looming like a dark shadow. Night after night we stay like this, and the isolated remains forgotten.

My footsteps sound so hollow. I hear them, loud in the empty rooms, loud in the void. How can an elf make so much noise? Perhaps I am no longer one. Perhaps I have never been one. I turn down another corridor and see some people scuttling about. More people, busy with work. A few turn to smile politely, but this is not what I want.

Now that I am in the forests, there is barely any difference. I talk to the trees, but I do not know how to tell them my sorrow, my worries. What is it that I truly want? I do not know either. I do not even know myself.

Who am I? I ask the trees.

I am only a shroud. There is nothing within. The trees whisper words of wisdom. I am grateful to them, but nothing enters in. This is my battle to fight; no one can ever help.

I turn to the skies. Thunder and more thunder carries on rumbling, like the tumult within me.

_Eru_, I know you're there! Please help me! _Saes! Boe im beleg_,_ boe bronion hen_…

/Please! I need to be strong, I need to endure this…/

But…

The only reply is the thunder. It seems almost gentle now, like a perfect chord enterring my consciousness, and silently exiting again. It is almost comforting, assuring. It is a presence that can be there, ever and always, almost like _Eru_. Is that all I want? Then, do I not already have it? But, why else do I still feel empty?

I am confused. I look at all the parchment I have taken with me; the parchment that I carry everywhere with me. There, a shading of the sunset, there, a story of a lost child. I look at them, and suddenly, I know what I have to do.

I look for flint. It appears beside me, like some witchcraft. I start a fire on dry twigs. Perhaps it will rain, but I care not. I look at the scraps again. Each one documents some grief, some pain, but as I look, no tear fills my eyes.

I am no longer an elf, I remind myself, I am nothing.

I put the pieces to the fire, watching as each corner shudders in the flames and disintegrates, mesmerised as what I had been holding onto disappears into ashes. Ashes that will never bring forth light. Ashes that are lost, forsaken by all, blown endlessly by the wind, scattered to all parts of _Arda_.

But as the flames lick, another part of me dies.

From somewhere I hear _ada_ and _nana_ banter again, laughing like children. I should never have been around. There was never space for me. If given the choice, would anyone want me? _Arda_ will not miss a soul that is empty within, which can do no harm, but can do no good. _Arda_ needs not another useless being.

I watch as the last scrap fades into nothingness. All the hours and hours of work gone in an instant. All the effort spent, all my heart put into it, flying along with the small grey fragments. But, there is no point in anything now. These are merely things that will never last, and they should go to where they belong.

At least they are free, I think.

The rain has come, heavy drops peltering down hard. The fire is long gone. The only light in the dark forest, the only warmth in the cold land is gone. I can feel the freezing breeze brush by, but there is nothing in me.

I wish the fire could consume me too, like the parchment. I am weary of the woods, of _Arda_. I wish to sail away and never return, but _Eru_ says this is not to be. I know He means well, I know I should obey, but I am tired, I do not wish, I do not want to care anymore…

I cannot run, because even if I do, I will still end up at the prison called Home, where there will always be _ada_ and _nana_, so near yet so far away, giving me the love I can never feel, and behind everything, the smiling face of Tithorn reminding me of how I fail.

I take an empty piece of parchment and lift my quill, poised to write, but there is nothing. The parchment lies empty, like my mind, like me…

* * *

I Veth /The End/


End file.
